Of Christmas and Crockery
by Starlight05
Summary: Sherlock smashes things, John fumes over tea and life, and the holidays arrive. A brief (belated) Christmas tale.


**AN: I forgot to post this on Christmas on this site, so here it is a few days late. Happy holidays everyone!**

* * *

John had long ago grown accustomed to the eccentricities of Sherlock Holmes, including - but certainly not limited to - his experiments. After heads in the fridge, toes in the bathtub, eyeballs in the microwave, and unspeakable smells in the middle of the sitting room at midnight, he'd come to the conclusion that this was part of life with Sherlock, and a life with Sherlock no matter what strings were attached had to better than the life John had lived before.

Yet one day in December, John arrived home windswept and chilled, longing for nothing but something warm and liquid to thaw his shivering body. An unexpected cold front had rolled in that afternoon, bringing a brutal wind and threats of ice overnight. The day at the surgery had been long, nonstop, and full of people afflicted by winter weather-induced illness. John was tired, half-frozen, and in a bad mood.

The obvious coping mechanism for all this was, of course, tea.

Stomping up the steps and rubbing his hands together, John caught the first strains of sound from their flat.

 _Crunch!_

 _Smash!_

 _Crash!_

Paused on the landing, John winced. "There arose such a clatter indeed," he muttered to himself, then pushed the door open... to reveal chaos.

Of course.

"Sherlock, what the hell?"

The consulting detective looked up, a small smile of greeting on his face. John ignored it in favor of staring in horror at the rug, on which were scattered the broken remains of what appeared to be every piece of porcelain they owned. Mugs, saucers, teacups, bowls, even what John suspected had once been the hideous tureen Harry had given him two years ago, were lying in shards everywhere. Long lines of tape stretched across the floor, dividing it into square units, on each of which a different object's destroyed detritus spread. Sherlock himself perched on his chair, a notebook in hand, a camera slung around his neck, and a single plate - probably the last whole one remaining in the entire flat - balanced on an armrest.

"Ah, John you're home, excellent. Be careful where you step-"

But Sherlock's words ceased as John raised a single finger in warning. "Before you finish that sentence," he murmured, a dangerous smile playing across his face. "Think very carefully about what you say next. Are you smashing all the ceramics in the flat?"

A startled, slightly chastised look passed across Sherlock's eyes. "I... it's an experiment."

John closed his eyes, willing himself not to explode at Sherlock. "An experiment."

"Yes. I'm examining the differing fragmentation of various ceramic brands. It's for that cold case Lestrade gave-"

"I'm going to stop you right there." Sherlock stopped, obviously having sensed John's bad mood for once. "How many times have we discussed you aren't to use the dishes for experiments? How many times, Sherlock? You know the rules. Don't put eyeballs in the microwave, if you have to put something in the fridge, label it and keep it away from the food, and lastly _don't ruin the things we eat off_!"

His voice had risen to a yell by the end of the brief speech, and Sherlock didn't move. He only blinked, a understated reaction which only spurred John on.

"Listen. I put up with your violin at two in the morning and your mess and your lack of privacy, but when it comes to our shared things I'd like to know those are at least safe. Especially when I've talked to you about this a dozen times! Now you clean up this mess before I go over there and throw that last plate at your head!"

He turned and stormed upstairs, fuming. All he'd wanted was a sodding cup of tea, and he'd instead received Sherlock causing havoc and destruction. Typical.

In his bedroom, he kicked off his shoes viciously, plugged his dying mobile in to charge, then stretched out on the bed. He began to breathe slowly for a few minutes, calming himself. It wasn't long after when he heard a soft knock.

"What?" he called. There was no reply, and John sat up, some of his anger returning.

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

He was greeted by only silence, and so he huffed and stood. Outside his door, instead of a tall curly-haired madman, was a steaming cup of tea sitting on the top step. John bent down and sniffed it gingerly. The rich scent filled his nose, soothing and invigorating in equal measure. He sighed and sipped it immediately, for once not even considering it may be poisoned, then moaned softly. It was perfect, just the right temperature, just enough cream, and he glanced back down at the cup.

Instantly the taste turned to ash in his mouth as he realized what he held: his old RAMC mug, his favorite, and apparently the only survivor of Sherlock's latest anti-dishware campaign. Had Sherlock kept it on purpose or had it been a fluke? John wasn't sure, but he did know instinctively that this tea was an apology. John had hurt Sherlock, but instead of being angry in return, Sherlock had taken it upon himself to seek forgiveness instead.

Shit.

John carried the tea to his bed as if it were a priceless artifact. As he did so, he pushed back his irritation with the day and reflected. This was not the first time Sherlock had refused to respond to John's rants with anything other than a variation on "I'm sorry," and in fact the man seemed to be rather walking on eggshells around John in general.

John sighed. He knew why; ever since the fallout with Mary and John's return to Baker Street six months ago, Sherlock had been surprisingly accommodating. He'd not questioned John about Mary beyond the bare minimum, and had even helped him move boxes to the old bedroom.

Most of his behavior had been normal, as if in response to John's repeated insistence that they return to what had once been status quo before the roof and a wedding had fractured a deep divide in their lives. Sherlock still took on cases, still experimented, still didn't talk for days on end, still was obtuse and arrogant and brilliant. But when they fought, Sherlock shut down, refused to fight back; he simply let John shout his fill and storm away. It was as if he were afraid of further antagonizing his returned flatmate and driving him farther away.

John groaned into the mug as the realization crashed down on him. Sherlock was scared of John leaving again, it was as simple as that. His smashing the dishes had been a true experiment, but he'd kept the RAMC mug whole out of... what, sentiment? Desire to accommodate John so he'd stay? Either way, the more John considered, the worse he felt.

That was it. John couldn't let Sherlock walk on eggshells any longer. He couldn't, wouldn't, let his best friend go on thinking he was going to lose John again. They had been through enough, lost each other enough times. Moriarty's maliciousness, Mary's lies, Magnussen's treachery, even John's own folly, all had torn Sherlock and John asunder. Now, with John home and both men groping about for solid ground, Sherlock seemed to be terrified of risking anything, so he'd started letting John walk all over him.

No longer, John vowed as he drained the cup of the last dregs of tea. It was the holidays after all, and John knew he wasn't going anywhere. Sherlock was his home, and it was about time John told him that. They both deserved some peace.

With that thought fresh in his mind, John began to plan.

* * *

 _One week later..._

John smiled at Sherlock as he emerged from his bedroom, pajamas rumpled and hair a mess. He yawned, rubbing his eyes sleepily, then caught sight of John and paused. The tentative smile he gave in response twisted something in John's chest. Sherlock was still clearly uncertain about him, though the broken bits of porcelain had disappeared overnight immediately after their fight. Neither had mentioned the argument, though John was sure Sherlock had been thinking about it in the quiet moments in days following.

Breakfast passed without much conversation, but once their toast and tea were finished, John turned purposefully to Sherlock.

"Presents?"

A look of surprise flashed in Sherlock's eyes, but he smiled. "Alright."

They giggled together as they fought for the best spot by the fireplace, and finally compromised by spreading out a blanket on the floor to share. It almost felt normal, like how their Christmases were supposed to have felt had criminals and a wedding not come in between them.

John grabbed his gift and held it out to Sherlock, who froze in the midst of reaching under the tree for a box scrawled with John's name.

"Open mine first," John murmured.

The wrapping paper fell away beneath Sherlock's slender fingers, and then he was lifting the lid to pull off the tissue paper within to get to the contents. Moments later, he stopped and stared.

"John?"

John grinned. "Do you... do you like them?"

Sherlock blinked rapidly, his hands clutching at two mugs. One was white with golden lettering that read "FOR SCIENCE." The other, black with gold lettering, said " _NOT_ FOR SCIENCE." There were five more of each kind in the box, nestled among the tissue paper and styrofoam bits. One dozen mugs for the lives of Sherlock and John.

"John," Sherlock repeated, looking up at him with wide eyes. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said softly. "Consider it a peace offering in addition to a gift."

Sherlock frowned. "Peace offering?"

"Well, yeah," John licked his lips, unsure how exactly the proceed. "I have kind of been stomping all over you since I came back, and I feel awful. Sherlock," he took a deep breath, the pause heavy, drawing them both in. "I'm home to stay. We've been through so much, and I think you're just as tired as I am of losing each other. So this is sort of a... I don't know, expression that this isn't just... This isn't just your life and my life anymore, it's _our_ life. Together. I promise you that. We'll probably have to compromise, but we'll figure this out. Just don't smash the black mugs, okay?"

Sherlock let out a laugh, his gaze fixed on John. "Alright." He reached out and snatched John's box from under the tree. "John, I..." he fiddled with the messy bow. "I know recent times have been... not good, but... I'm glad you're home all the same."

He abruptly brandished the gift, biting his lip. John smiled and tugged at the bow, loosening it and dropping it to the floor next to him. He lifted the lid of the flat box and peered inside.

It was a folder, with a few words written on the front in Sherlock's lazy penmanship: "Future serenades."

The folder was filled with sheet music, all handwritten in various colors of ink, sometimes even the staffs themselves were hand-drawn. As John flipped through them, he found one recurrent theme. The titles.

"For John."

"JW."

"Dedicated to John."

"Captain Watson."

And so on. John felt touched as he turned the pages, running his fingers over the notes he couldn't read, eager to hear the music they translated to. Over the years Sherlock had written nearly a dozen songs for him, about him, and he had had no idea.

The last song in the folder, dated only a few months ago was called "Welcome home, John."

John looked up to see Sherlock watching him, a hint of vulnerability and trepidation that only John would have been able to detect. "Sherlock, this is amazing. Thank you."

And then, before he could talk himself out of the impulse, he draped the ribbon from the box around Sherlock's shoulders, used it to tug the man forward, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

He pulled back to see the blush on Sherlock's cheeks and the smile on Sherlock's lips, and grinned. In that moment, everything felt right.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

Sherlock returned the smile shyly. "Happy Christmas, John."

FIN.


End file.
